‘Tis the season to eat fresh truffles. I hail a passing pig, the nonpareil truffle hunter, to hunt them down. She sniffs the air, gives a grunt and trots straightaway to the

Niagara Street Cafe, Anton Potvin’s festive little boîte in the rising condo corridor along King Street West. The truffle’s release of pheromones is that powerful! Sure enough, I find both white and black truffles for the asking. Just jetted in from Croatia.

They’re billed as Wanda’s Truffles after the supplier, Wanda Srdoc, whose family made a major truffle strike in the oak forests of Motovun, which is to Croatian truffles what Saudi Arabia’s Ghawar oil field is to oil. Motovun’s truffles are so good that Croatia is now a leading exporter to North America. Truffles, of course, are now being farm-grown as well — New Zealand and North Carolina are among the leaders.

Eco-eaters may grumble over the hefty carbon print left by the little truffle. Go ask Ontario farmers why we don’t have fresh ’n’ local varieties. B.C. has begun with Duckett Truffieres, but they have yet to make their way to Ontario. Of course, that will be a hefty carbon print, too.

Chef Nick Liu is now bringing out the truffles for our inspection. They look like a couple of smallish moon rocks. One small step for mankind, a giant step for the gourmand. The white one is pockmarked, the larger black one has a bubbly skin.

OMG, a pound of these negligible fungi cost the earth — an aphrodisiacally high price tag. Retail, $12 a gram, or $5,376 a pound. I have ideal companions for this treat. Nigel and Diane are chalking up their first wedding anniversary. May the good times continue to roll.

They rate the NSC romantic. Soft lights, soft music, friendly service, comfortable banquette. So far no cellphone activation. Nobody’s reading the Giller-winner The Sentimentalists on Kobo. A live person place, a sophisticated take on a neighbourhood restaurant. Dusted with glamour, too. It has the reputation for entertaining major wine imbibers who bring their own great vintages to match a meal. Us chickens do OK, too. Potvin has a discerning wine list, starting with a a crisp and affordable white house wine, Domaine de Sancet, Côtes de Gascogne ($8 a glass).

We sniff the air. Something’s coming, something good. Little bowls of fresh, hand-cut pappardelle with pecorino cheese arrive, spotted with truffle scrapings — don’t waste a spoor now. The black truffles are $15, the white, $19. The white gets a higher gastronomic rating, connoisseur Potvin says. He declares that at first he liked the black better, but now he’s in thrall to the white — it tastes of gasoline, high octane, intoxicating. Say, perhaps he’d like to become a food writer. Chef Liu is even more ecstatic: “The white truffle’s flavour gives me the intoxicating feeling of being in love.”

To me, the truffle-imbued pasta is food from the crypt — as if retrieved from some musty tomb. It’s amazing just how far a few truffle scrapings are infecting the thick pasta ribbons. Greedily, we think, more please. We agree that we’d be willing to pay more for, say, another half-gram of black or white. Not more pasta, just more truffle. Perhaps the menu should indicate a booster dish for Xtreme truffle hounds.

We come down from our truffle high and consider Liu’s menu. Refreshing. Crispy confit frogs legs ($13) are juicy, like baby chicken, and they come with a toadstool! It’s OK, not the red one with white spots. The accompanying sauce gribiche — eggy, creamy, spiked with pickles — is complemented with the peppery fresh watercress.

Ontario smelts! They must not be ignored. Fried ($12), they no longer smell of violets but the green curry mayo and a spicy thai dipping sauce makes up for that.